Rhyme or Reason
by EverybodyHide
Summary: Four scars, four stories, countless memories. Jotkor one-shot for Faberry Week Day One: Scars.


**Rhyme or Reason **

Quinn had once told Rachel that young children could regrow fingertips the same way that starfish could regenerate limbs. It was disturbing, and Rachel had just stared while her oblivious wife continued on about axolotls and white-tailed deer. The most severe injury Rachel had ever witnessed, excluding _childbirth_, was Quinn's poor leg after her cab had wrecked in the city.

There was also an alleged incident involving a sea lion, though Rachel had never seen those bruises.

Things like knee scrapes and cuts from "safety" scissors that weren't safe at all – Rachel had written a letter to Crayola for that – and bruises from running full speed into a dog or door were common in their household, which is why James was outfitted in padding.

He was four, and he was learning to ride a bike, and Rachel had snugly fitted a helmet to his head so that his shaggy blonde hair stuck out the bottom.

They'd come to an empty tennis court in Central Park, and Quinn had taken the training wheels off of his Hot Wheels cruiser while Rachel prepped her video camera and phone and watched Emmie skid around like a madman in neon Power Rangers pads.

Emmie was pushing her pink bike and its training wheels to the limit, as loudly as possible, and Rachel had never been prouder.

She kept one eye on her daughter and the other on her son, who had been rolling easily around the tennis court for half an hour with Quinn's protective hands on his back and handlebars. Quinn was looking a little tired, red-faced and sweaty, and Rachel chuckled to herself and zoomed in.

"Ready to try by yourself, Jimbo?" Quinn asked as they rounded the net yet again.

James panicked for a moment and stopped his leisurely pedaling to look up at Quinn.

"I'll be right here." Quinn assured, grateful for the break. She whispered, "I'm really fast, remember?" and James laughed loudly and nodded.

Rachel wondered how long it would take James to realize that his mom was getting one over on him, because Quinn was not particularly fast at all.

"Don't let go 'til I say," he nervously instructed when Quinn started jogging again.

Her hand just barely hovered over his back. "Whenever you're ready, sir."

"You go Jimbo!" Rachel yelled as they passed by. Quinn tossed the sweaty blonde hair out of her eyes and flashed a happy smile.

James requested in his small voice, "Countdown?" and Quinn responded immediately with a mediocre crackle to imitate a walkie-talkie, and then, "Cape Canaveral to Christopher Robin, lift-off in T minus 5 seconds."

Rachel held the camera in one hand and her phone in the other while Emmie drifted wildly around a corner in the background.

"Four…three…" Quinn continued breathlessly.

James was picking up speed.

"Two…one!" Quinn let go of the handlebars but ran alongside the bike, ready to catch it if it wobbled. "Lift-off!"

Rachel shrieked her support, unable to clap. "Go James!"

"Pedal, Jay, pedal," Quinn reminded, and James responded immediately.

He made a wide, unsteady turn, and Rachel caught his delighted grin on camera. Quinn seized his handlebars when he drifted too closely to the fence, and she ran a few steps like that before James insisted, "I can do it, mommy!"

"He can do it, mommy!" Rachel shouted, and Quinn turned and caught her playful gaze.

She let James go again and he pedaled harder, picking up speed and sending Quinn sprinting after him. Rachel's smile faded and Emmie stopped to observe her brother, one of those people who just wanted to watch the world burn.

"Quinn!" Rachel yelled, high-pitched, because her wife had been left behind and James was heading for the net.

He plowed into it quietly, almost head-on, and Rachel would swear that he was airborne for a moment. Quinn ended up on the ground next to him. Whether she'd tripped over her son, his bike, or the net, Rachel was unsure, but she was on her knees and untangling his arm.

Rachel shouted, "Stop right there, Em," because it looked like her daughter was planning on running her brother over. She joined James and Quinn, cameras still rolling, and found James examining a small gash on his ankle with wide eyes.

"Mama," he whispered, awed.

"We'll fix it up, honey," Rachel said, crouching down. She surreptitiously searched for any limbs at odd angles. "You were going _fast_."

James held his leg up for Quinn to examine his ankle. "Faster than mommy?"

Rachel snorted. Quinn had been left in the dust.

"_Way_ faster than mommy," she nodded.

"No one's faster than mommy," Quinn mumbled, mostly to herself as she examined the gash.

Rachel caught James's bright eyes and mouthed, "You are," pointing at him. He smiled smugly and tugged his foot out of Quinn's grasp.

"I'm fine, mommy."

Rachel was doubtful. "Does it hurt?"

James shook his head, chin held high. "Let's play – let's do the song. I'll show you."

"Right _now_?" Rachel asked, wide-eyed. "You can handle that?"

"Course he can." Quinn said, standing up. She helped Rachel up and brushed the dust off her butt, then swung James to his feet.

James took off his helmet and put his hands on his fluffy blonde head, mimicking Quinn.

"Ready?" Quinn checked.

He nodded, grinning.

"_Head, shoulders, knees, and toes_," Quinn began slowly, doing the accompanying dance. "_Head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes_."

Rachel watched fondly, suppressing laughter because Quinn looked like she'd been rolling around on the ground and James was barely keeping up. She made sure to scrutinize the distribution of his weight.

"_And eyes and ears and mouth and nose_," Rachel harmonized.

"_Head, shoulders, knees, and toes_."

James clapped when it was finished and rushed to get back on his bike. His ankle would scar, leaving a jagged, pale line, but all James would remember about the day was the dance he'd learned in kindergarten and the video he'd later see of Rachel attempting to ride his bike home.

~ooooooooooooooo~

It was a celebration dinner for the first day of school – second grade for James and first for Emmie – and Quinn was flicking mini marshmallows across the dinner table for her kids to catch in their mouths. James was winning because Sam kept lunging across the table to intercept Emmie's.

"Four legs on the ground, sweetie," she reminded her daughter when Emmie tipped back in her chair again.

"I can't catch any, mommy."

Rachel swept into the room with a bowl of pasta and plucked the marshmallow bag out of Quinn's hand. She leaned over and whispered in her ear, "_Mommy_ needs to stop feeding marshmallows before dinner."

She ruffled Quinn's hair and Quinn ducked away and ignored Sam's mocking grin.

Instead, while Rachel was doling out food, she said, "Horses can't breathe through their mouths."

Rachel continued on with a small smile, while James and Emmie watched with wide eyes. Sam was focused on petting Penguin, Tucker, and Cornelius, feeding them scraps before the meal began.

"There's a tissue flap that blocks the mouth from the pharynx, except when they swallow, so it's dangerous if the nasal passages are obstructed."

James nodded knowingly. "They can't breathe."

Quinn smiled, pleased. "Exactly, Jimbo."

She sat forward in her seat and tapped her fork against the table. "And that's why – you know how Seal and Tuck pant when they get really hot?"

Emmie and James nodded quickly, totally focused.

Rachel exchanged an amused glance with Sam across the table.

"Horses don't – they can't thermoregulate like that, so they sweat."

"Like Uncle Sam," James laughed, pointing.

Sam looked affronted. He opened his mouth to respond, but Emmie tipped backwards at that instant, crashing to the ground. Rachel was on her feet and by Emmie's side before Quinn realized what had happened. When she did, she stood and rested her elbow in the broccoli trying to see her daughter's face on the floor.

Emmie wasn't crying, just shocked and small. Her chin was bleeding where it had smacked against her chest.

"Mama…" she said, dazed, reaching a hand up to feel it.

Rachel intercepted it in a frantic movement and pressed the kitchen towel Sam handed her against Emmie's chin. Quinn had rushed around the table and kneeled by her daughter's head. She ran a hand over her curly brown hair, checking for lumps.

"There's so much – God, Quinn." Rachel looked at her, distressed. "Do you – should you stitch it up? Or should we call – "

"Emergency room," Quinn said quickly.

James looked concerned, still in his seat. "Mommy?"

"Help me wrangle these animals, Jimbo," Sam said, nodding at Tucker, who was trying to shove his way through to Emmie. He had a struggling Penguin by her collar while Cornelius sat quietly, complacent in his old age.

James nodded seriously and slid out of his chair.

"You're alright, Em," Quinn said quietly, lifting Emmie up while Rachel held the small towel in place. She still hadn't said anything, and Quinn wondered how hard she'd hit her head. There was blood on the front of her dress and it twisted Quinn's heart, turned her stomach.

Rachel told Sam where they were going, kissed James's head and told him to watch the dogs and that they'd be back soon. Emmie was just fine.

Quinn drove, quickly and carefully, with Emmie's head in Rachel's lap in the backseat, and they were halfway to urgent care when Emmie peered up at Rachel and wondered, "Where are we going, mama?"

Rachel had never been so relieved to hear her speak. She caught Quinn's gaze in the rearview mirror.

"We're going to the hospital, Em."

Emmie moved her jaw around, testing it out. "It doesn't hurt."

Rachel smoothed back her dark hair. "We still need to fix it up."

Emmie's brown eyes were defiant, but she remained silent.

They were seen immediately at urgent care, shuffled into a small room where Emmie was placed on the bed. Rachel fretted while the doctor worked, twisting her hands together and pacing across the tiny space until Quinn reached for her wrist and held her still.

She tugged on one of Rachel's ears and murmured, "She's _fine_, baby."

It wasn't until the doctor determined that Emmie wasn't concussed and began working on her eight stitches that Rachel believed her. The cut was so clean that a couple of the nurses were sending suspicious looks, but Rachel was too distracted to berate them, to tell them that _no_, her daughter hadn't been playing with knives or razor blades.

Quinn kept an arm around Rachel's waist and stared back at them until they dropped their judgmental looks.

"Do you need something?" she finally asked one of them. "Are you not capable of doing your job? Because I can – "

"_Bear_."

Quinn closed her mouth and puffed out her cheeks, and Rachel had to smile. She sent the nurse an apologetic look. She could hear Emmie conversing playfully with the doctor, and no more blood was flowing, so it was looking up. She could breathe now.

Emmie sat up when the doctor was finished, with a lollipop she eyed with disdain because it was grape, and she proudly lifted her chin to show Rachel and Quinn.

Rachel kissed her, picked her up and hugged her tightly. "You did so well, baby girl."

"I'm six, mama."

She was a six-year-old fearless, intrepid, exuberant adventurer, and Rachel really shouldn't have been surprised that she hadn't cried. Quinn suggested ice cream on the way home, because Quinn was always suggesting ice cream, and the triple strawberry sundae was all Emmie would recall of the ordeal.

~ooooooooooooooo~

The scars on James's ankle and Emmie's chin, and countless other places, had faded to pale blemishes by the time they reached middle school. Things like dance contributed, ballet and tap for both kids, until James had gotten tired of it and switched to soccer and swim.

Learning dance was too "slow and boring" for him, and he wanted to play real games.

Rachel had only been mildly heartbroken to learn that her baby boy had no interest in performing. Her daughter had been a hilarious, rambunctious incarnation of the Cowardly Lion in her fifth grade production of The Wizard of Oz, and was so competitive in her gymnastics class that Rachel had had several quiet discussions with her to tone it down, enjoy it and make friends.

James was the opposite, so quiet sometimes that his friendships would only stem from sports. He was eleven now, back in Central Park, practicing to make the middle school baseball team with his family as his pawns.

He stood in the batter's box knocking clay out of his cleats, while Quinn was on the pitcher's mound with a glove, a bucket of balls, and enthusiastic, well-intentioned lack of skill. Rachel and Emmie wandered around the outfield, pulling up grass and pirouetting.

Quinn lobbed a ball over the plate, way too low, and James let his bat fall against the rubber as he stood up straight.

"Throw a strike, mom!"

"That was!" Quinn protested.

"If you're short like mama or Em."

Rachel planted her hands on her hips in the outfield and yelled, "Excuse me?"

"Go again," James requested, setting up his stance.

"What did you say, James Christopher Robin?"

Quinn turned around and called, "Ready ladies?" She smiled, focused particularly on Rachel, who was huffing around with her hands in her pockets.

James wasn't taller than her _yet_. Close, but no.

"Hurry up, mom!" Emmie yelled, bored.

Quinn threw another ball, slow, but in the strike zone, and James's bat connected and sent a line drive right back at the pitcher. It connected with Quinn's knee, and Quinn loosed a small cry and crumpled immediately.

Rachel froze, unsure what exactly had happened. She called, "Bear? Quinn?"

When Quinn made no move to reply, just tipped so that she was lying on her side, clutching at her leg, Rachel ran to the infield. James's hand covered his mouth as he rushed up to the pitcher's mound, spewing apologies.

Quinn was muttering, "Fuck, fuck, fuck," when Rachel reached her and dropped to the ground.

James's eyes went wide at the language, his hand tangled in his mess of blonde hair.

"Bear," Rachel said quietly. She rested one hand on Quinn's head and used the other to hold her still. "I'm right here. Hold on, baby. You have to let me see."

"Rachel," Quinn whined, eyes watering.

Rachel extracted Quinn's iPhone from her back pocket and handed it to her son. She instructed, "Call Aunt San please, Jimbo," and then looked at Quinn's knee. It was swollen already, violently red and puffed up to twice its size. It was bleeding from a split in the skin and Emmie muttered, "Oh my God," before walking away.

Rachel almost followed her. It was Quinn's bad leg, the one she'd broken, and Rachel kept a gentle hand on her thigh and used the other to smooth Quinn's hair back.

"How bad is it?" Quinn asked tightly, looking up at her.

Rachel hesitated. "You're – it'll be just fine, bear."

Quinn rolled a bit and Rachel gripped her hand to keep her from digging her fingernails into her thigh.

"My head hurts." Quinn sighed heavily.

"Your head?"

"What?" Quinn frowned.

Rachel squeezed her hand. "Your head hurts too, Quinn?"

Quinn's eyes were hazy. She swallowed thickly and said, "Just…nauseous."

"Ma?"

James's cautious hand was on Rachel's back as he surveyed the situation.

"Just a minute, Jay."

He held up the phone and said, "Do you want Aunt San to meet us at the hospital or come here?"

Rachel loudly said, "Come here and bring a boy please, Santana!" James held the phone up to her mouth and Rachel could see the clay under his nails, that little leather Yankees wristband Kurt had gotten him.

"Puck or Sam or whoever is fine!"

She only heard a distant, garbled response – something about "Sunny Delight" – as James took the phone back.

"Is something broken, Rachel?" Quinn wondered, squinting up at the sun.

She looked like she really didn't want to hear the answer, so Rachel just smoothed her hair and softly said, "I don't know, baby."

She couldn't see bone, at least. Thank the Lord. She'd be hurling in the dugout.

Quinn nodded to herself. "I can fix it."

"We'll see." Rachel could barely identify where Quinn's thigh ended and her calf began.

"I'm so sorry, mom," James said again, kneeling next to Rachel. He looked distressed, and Rachel put a hand on his back and scratched at the top of the number two on his jersey.

Quinn smiled – just a little pained – and held up a hand for a high-five. "That was a nice hit, Jimbo. Do that in every game."

Rachel agreed, ruffling his hair. He ducked away and sat cross-legged in the dirt. Emmie wandered back to their group, holding up a hand so that she didn't accidentally look at Quinn's knee. She sat by her brother and immediately started drawing in the clay with her finger.

Quinn was red-faced and breathing shallowly now, squeezing the life out of Rachel's hand. Still, she squinted up at the clouds and said, "Elephant knees are actually wrists."

Rachel snorted softly. Both kids rolled their eyes.

"Mom, don't." Emmie complained.

Rachel gave her a look that said, "Mommy's knee is shattered so if she wants to tell you about elephant knees you're going to listen."

Quinn went quiet, concentrated on flexing her toes to make sure she could still feel them, until Rachel tapped her lips and said, "So elephants don't have knees?"

"Their back legs have knees, where the femur and tibia join." Quinn described. She reached up to wipe the sweat off her forehead and streaked a trail of clay in its wake.

"Where the front leg bends would technically be a wrist because it joins the radius and carpus."

Emmie looked thoughtful for a moment. "Do they have elbows?"

Quinn smiled, delighted, because she'd reeled her in. "They do, above the wrist."

"That's awesome." James flexed his own arms, examining his elbows.

Quinn looked proud of herself, and Rachel smiled at her and tipped forward to kiss her forehead.

"Did somebody call for a big, strong man?"

Puck came through the first base dugout, thumping his fists against his chest. Santana followed with an eye roll. She caught sight of James and threw her hands in the air, focused on him.

"What did you do to your mother, Jon Bon?"

James laughed. "I told you! It was an accident!"

"Holy shit, Quinn," Puck said as soon as he could see her knee. He looked fascinated by it and Rachel watched protectively.

Quinn just grimaced and let him lift her up, wrapping an arm around his neck. Her leg dangled painfully and Puck moved as slowly and smoothly as possible. They all crammed in a large cab to the hospital, with Santana and James continually arguing about how he'd "taken out his mother."

"We were supposed to get pancakes after baseball," Quinn reminded nobody in particular.

She was mostly ignored, and Emmie held her hand and asked her several questions about horses, things like, "If you turned into a horse, what's the first thing you would do?" Quinn would go galloping through the streets while Rachel would figure out how to turn back into a person.

They waited an hour at the emergency room before Quinn was taken back for x-rays and an exam. The nurses quickly supplied her with pain medication and she was hazy and nearly incoherent when the doctors informed them that she'd fractured her patella.

"Geez, James," Santana scoffed, ruffling his hair.

"I didn't mean to!"

Puck leaned towards him. "So, dude, can I get an autograph now, or…"

"In the car," Rachel smiled, shuffling Emmie and James towards the door. They both doubled back when Quinn reached an arm out with a slurred request for a kiss, but Rachel was eventually able to send them home with Santana to stay with her, Brittany, and Marcus.

Rachel disappeared for about twenty minutes as well, and Quinn sat sulking and half-asleep in the hospital bed, abandoned by her family, until Rachel came back through the door with two takeout containers of pancakes from their favorite diner.

Quinn brightened immediately.

"I know how you get," Rachel said wryly, letting Quinn pull her onto the bed. She had almost twenty years of experience.

"Hungry?"

"Bothersome," Rachel corrected. She opened a box – the one with whipped cream and chocolate chips – and set it on Quinn's lap. "Whiny. Irritating."

"_Endearing_."

Rachel laughed, shaking her head. "No, bear."

Quinn hummed absently, focused on her pancakes. Her movements were clumsy and she tipped against Rachel where she sat, but she was out of pain for now and mostly oblivious.

She'd remember every second of this experience, drag herself around the zoo on crutches that her kids would be playing with for the next eight weeks, but James would make the baseball team, and that would be the greatest memory brought back by the scar on her knee.

~ooooooooooooo~

Rachel pulled the cupcake pan out of the oven while her daughter watched, fifteen years old and aloof, leaning against the counter in a matching polka dot apron. Rachel flicked off her oven mitts and clasped her hands together excitedly.

"Frosting now, right?" Emmie asked, opening the fridge. Her dark hair was tied back in a sloppy ponytail, and Rachel tugged on it and joined her.

"Yes, time for frosting."

"Where are the chocolate chips?"

Rachel scanned the shelves and rolled her eyes. "Ask your mom or your brother."

Emmie was undeterred, just shut the door and retrieved the powdered sugar and vanilla extract from the pantry instead. She held them out for Rachel with an expectant look, but Rachel shook her head, backing up to lean against the island.

"You can do this part, Em."

Emmie stared at her. "Ma."

Rachel grinned, pointing at the mixing bowl. "They're for _your_ friend, whatshisname. You can do the icing yourself."

"Dennis." Emmie muttered, flushed.

Rachel watched her sloppily dump powdered sugar into a measuring cup, endlessly amused. "That's right. Dennis the Menace."

"Just Dennis will be fine, thanks."

Rachel hummed wordlessly. She reserved the right to call "Dennis" whatever she liked. She was leaning on the island between an assortment of candles, which Emmie had been selling for her dance team, and James's backpack full of books, which had been sitting there since he'd gotten home from soccer practice.

She twisted the top off an angry red candle, "Red Tahitian Sunset," and coughed at the overwhelming, nauseating scent. Emmie laughed without turning around – she knew what it was. They'd all had enough of those goddamn candles.

Quinn had bought two for the family, "Pink Sugar Berry" and "Honeysuckle Berry Bliss," both ridiculous, pink, pungent things that they _had_ to have because of the names.

"I'd buy one that smells like cupcakes," Rachel mused, zipping James's backpack and dropping it to the floor.

Emmie tipped vanilla extract into her bowl. "And call it Creamy Red Velvet Elation."

"Euphoric Spring Vanilla Rainbow." Rachel added, laughing. She moved to lean against the counter so that she could see Emmie's face. "Is red velvet Derek's favorite flavor?"

"_Dennis_." Emmie scoffed. "Knock it off, mama."

"Hey now, watch it," Rachel said unthreateningly. She lightly scratched Emmie's back as she walked behind her. "When I was fifteen –"

She cut herself off with a sharp gasp, as the cupcake pan she'd reached for with her bare hand fell from her grasp. It took out a ceramic mixing bowl on its way down, which shattered loudly at Rachel's feet and muffled her, "_Shit_!"

Emmie surveyed the damage with wide eyes, mouth open. Rachel took a miniscule step back in her bare feet and squeaked before freezing. A shard had gotten her, and she took a deep breath and stood perfectly still.

"Hold on mama," Emmie said, looking around for the dustpan.

"No, sweetie, go and put some shoes on."

"What was _that_?" Quinn's voice reached the kitchen before she rounded the corner and stood in the doorway, a rubber dolphin in one hand and the television remote in the other.

Emmie brushed by on her way out. "Mama burned herself and broke a bowl."

Rachel was eyeing the cupcakes, which seemed to be intact in their pan.

"What was that?" James shouted from upstairs.

Emmie yelled back from the living room, "Mama burned herself and broke a bowl!"

Rachel rolled her eyes while her wife pulled on some shoes. Quinn retrieved the first aid kit from the downstairs bathroom and the dustpan from the closet, then stepped carefully over the ceramic pieces and turned around in front of Rachel.

Rachel stared at the back of her head. "What are you doing, bear?"

"Get on my back. You can sit on the island."

Rachel couldn't imagine taking another step and driving whatever was in her foot _further_ into her foot, but she was skeptical. "We're not twenty-two anymore, honey."

"We're still sprightly." Quinn turned her head, exasperated. "Get on, Rachel."

Rachel did, and Quinn crunched her way over the glass to deposit Rachel on the island, next to those damn candles. She gently gripped Rachel's ankle and grimaced at her foot.

"Oh, baby."

"Is it bad?" Rachel felt a bit nauseated.

"No, just…" Quinn dabbed the area with gauze and showed it to Rachel. "Blood."

Emmie strolled back into the kitchen then, wearing shoes, and picked up the dustpan to clean up Rachel's mess. She pulled a face at the sight of Rachel's foot – pained and sympathetic.

Rachel jerked and yelped when Quinn quickly pulled out whatever was in her heel.

"Sorry, baby," Quinn said, squeezing her calf.

"Let me tell you about Dennis," Emmie offered imploringly, like it would cheer Rachel up.

It definitely would, and Rachel straightened eagerly. She opened a "Cinnabon" scented candle, which was really just overpowering, revolting cinnamon, because she felt light-headed.

"Ah yes, when's Dennis the Menace getting here?" Quinn wondered, tipping alcohol onto gauze.

Emmie ignored her. "He's into theater, mama, so he likes talking about all the shows with me. And he wants to write his own musical one day."

"Ambitious," Rachel hummed.

"And his family's Syrian and Lebanese, so he looks sort of Italian, you know. He has a big, loud family, and they love food," Emmie described, smiling. "He actually made me cookies a few weeks ago."

"He made you _cookies_?" Rachel gasped like it was scandalous.

Quinn frowned distractedly at Rachel's feet. "What kind of cookies?"

"Chocolate chip," Emmie said. "And he's sort of small, like taller than me but shorter than mom. He's really…"

Rachel lifted an eyebrow, smiling at her daughter's flushed cheeks. "Cute? Hot?"

"Remember when you used to make me cookies?" Quinn said absently.

Rachel scoffed, tapping her cheek. "I made you cookies yesterday, bear."

Quinn grinned up at her, eyes bright. "You do remember."

Emmie shook her head and dumped the remnants of the bowl in the trash. "Honestly," she muttered, and patted her mom's head as she left the kitchen. Rachel called after her, "I'm excited to meet Dennis, Em," and she smiled.

"Shut that thing, Rachel," Quinn said, nodding at the candle Rachel kept sniffing.

"You wanted the Cinnabon one."

Quinn wrapped a bandage around Rachel's foot. "No, I wanted a Cinnabon."

Rachel laughed, nodding. Quinn finished and kissed the top of her foot and stood up, hands on Rachel's thighs. She tipped her head curiously and wondered, "You still think we're sprightly, right?"

Rachel wordlessly put her hands around Quinn's neck and played with the soft hair there, eyebrow raised.

"Because you're still – you're still on stage every day and I'm still at the zoo…" Quinn puffed out her cheeks expectantly.

"We are the most spirited, lively, sprightly people I know."

Quinn hummed, pleased. She squeezed Rachel's thighs. "And frisky."

Rachel snorted. "Emmie's in the living room, bear."

"Actually, I'm right here." Emmie strode through the kitchen door, hand over her eyes, to retrieve the TV remote that Quinn had left on the counter.

"We're not quite elephants yet." Rachel assured softly.

Quinn smiled her agreement. Her eyes were the same affectionate bright hazel of nearly twenty years ago, Rachel's the same warm brown, kind and full of energy. Maybe a little more exhausted, a little wiser after sixteen years with kids.

She'd remember the ceramic bowl incident, and the _night_ of the ceramic bowl incident – when the kids were asleep and the dogs were locked out of the bedroom – but two things would stand out the most when she'd catch sight of the scar on her foot.

First, the look on her daughter's face as she presented cupcakes to the boy she liked, and second, the godforsaken candles that had her family laughing for months.


End file.
